Killing Me Softly With Their Songs

It's official - Ian can talk.  To refresh your memory, talking is linking at least two words together to express a thought or desire.  Ian can express and he leaves no confusion about his desires.

It started with the use of the word 'my', which he uses with gymnast-like flexibility.  He can take any object  in our house or yard or Elliott's room, put 'my' in front of it, and suddenly he possesses more real estate than Donald Trump. 

"My tractor."

"My train."

"My ball."

"My truck."  Uhm, no big boy, I'm afraid that's where we draw the line, that's DADDY'S truck!

Recently, he has taken the word 'hit' and applied the same concept.  Insert hit in front of any object, including family and friends, and we suddenly have a one year old announcing a premeditated assault on anything within reach of his short, chubby, swinging arms. 

"Hit Elliott."

"Hit tractor."

"Hit baby." (Yes, he finds time to throw a few wayward punches in his own direction.)

I assure you he is now smack dab in the middle of an intervention.  I wish I could say he's a self-created monster, but I think he had some help. The first time he took a playful little jab at me and said "hit daddy," I thought it was kind of funny.  I laughed.  He obviously hasn't forgotten.  So now we spend a lot of our time reminding him that he's a nice baby and nice babies don't hit.  Many times he looks like he buys that.  Other times not.  Like he somehow remembers that no matter how rotten he gets, he has a grandma in Ohio that thinks he's the sweetest thing on earth. 

And Elliott can talk.  Only Elliott talks in sentences much longer than two words.  Sometimes he strings upwards of 3000 words together without thinking about taking a breath.  He'll start talking about all the animals on his farm and three minutes later with no period in sight he's singing some song about fishing off of the moon.  The only break in the flow is an occasional scream of "no hitting, Ian."  Elliott pauses while we kindly remind Ian that nice babies don't hit, then he picks up right where he left off.

I took both of the boys to grandma and grandpa's house last week.  I tried to get in my morning dose of Mike and Mike in the Morning on ESPN radio, but with the chatter in the back seat, I would have been more successful trying to meditate in the stands of one of those obnoxious World Cup soccer games.  We have a trip planned to Ohio next week, but at one point during the drive I unofficially cancelled that trip.  I took one minute of that 40 minute drive and multiplied it by an 11 hour trip to Ohio and that equalled me driving off the road of sanity.  I remembered we were taking the trip to watch my nieces and nephews show their animals at the fair, so the trip is still on.  The condition of Uncle Keith when he gets there, however, is in serious question.

We had a big weekend.  Elliott started "blastball."  It is an introduction to baseball for the really young ones.  The kids hit the ball off a tee. Then they run to the first and only base, and when they step on it, it honks.  Yes, it honks.  I couldn't help but think that if they'd had a honker on first base during that Tigers game a couple of weeks ago, it might have made it easier for the umpire to get the call right that robbed the pitcher of a perfect game.  He would have clearly heard the ball smack the first baseman's glove before the runner hit the base and unleashed a honk.  Glove smacks before base honks equals runner out.  Who needs instant replay.

First - you make sure your uniform is just right.

Even when reaching stardom, there is time for photo ops with family.

But then it's game time.  The star motors down the first base line as the defense gracefully fields the ball. 

Big plays call for big water breaks in the dugout.

Some stars have a hard time focusing on the defensive side of the field - not enough glamour I suppose.  But taking the time to study the composition of the playing surface while the opposing team bats might be a bit much.

          There is no score in blastball, but something tells me Elliott was keeping track in his head.


I had a wonderful Father's Day.  I am blessed that our heavenly father has trusted me to take care of two of his prized children.  He allows me to be far more of a father than I could be without him.  Elliott brought me home a little book from school that more than sums up what it is like being the father of two young boys. The front of the book said:

Elliott's book about dad.  On the inside, they were asked some leading questions and the kids answered.

Here are Elliott's responses:

My dad is - 100 years old

My dad's favorite color is - blue (he was right)

My dad's favorite food is - oatmeal (if it hasn't been butchered it probably isn't my favorite food)

What does your dad do at work - He fixes the wall (yes, right after I've drove my head through it for the tenth time that day)

My favorite thing to do with my dad - is hug him

Thank you God.